


Laid bare beneath the sun

by Vampiric_Charms



Series: Burns Most of All [44]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: The fires were finally lit once more, the sun was warming his body chilled by wounds he never should have received, and everything was almost,almostall right again - madness or no.





	Laid bare beneath the sun

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel of sorts for _Soft and made of snow_ , posted ~~last week~~ two weeks ago, written for swilmarillion. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

When Sauron woke, he was alone.  Awareness flitted back slowly, the fire across from him coming into view faster than his surroundings, and he focused on the life-giving flames as the rest of the room came into life nearby.  His own tower room, it was, his own fireplace, his own space.  He shifted, remembering last being on cold marble floors in the throne room far below and instead finding himself surrounded by his scarcely used feather mattress, sinking into pillows reeking of dust.

The fire was lit in the large fireplace at the foot of his bed, its crackling the only sound in the stifling stillness around him, and sunlight streamed in through dirt-streaked windows to cast odd shadows across the cobbled floor.  He tried to sit up, wanting to open those windows to let out some of the stink of disuse through the room, and found himself too exhausted to move just yet.  He let himself stay where he was, then, slotting memories into place as they sifted back.

He remembered the fight, the fall, his fleeing, he remembered it all far too clearly.  The blood, his blood falling from his physical body until it nearly fell apart at the seams - his recovery in those dark woods.  And then his desire to return, to come back to Melkor’s side and reassure himself all was well, that nothing had harmed his lord in his absence.

He found instead more pain and more madness.

The wooden bedframe groaned as he finally shifted himself on the soft mattress to throw his legs over the side, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor.  He shivered at the sensation, not used to his body feeling cold like this when he was too weak still to simply change his form, to heal himself completely after such devastation, and the chill _stuck_.  He noticed then, as well, that his boots and the disgusting robes he had been wearing for such an indeterminable time were dropped in a heap by the wash cabinet, where a bowl of water was still sitting and dyed red with old blood.  A stained towel was floating inside.  He’d been changed into a worn-out sleep tunic from his bureau while he was...unconscious?  Asleep?  It was an odd thought.

Sauron shoved to his feet and stumbled over to the window, finally throwing it open.  The breeze this high up was acrid, pungent with ash, and it smelled like home as a soft wind blew inside.  It unsettled his hair, pushing it in scattered rivulets over his shoulders, as he stared out across the wastelands to the volcanoes sputtering in the distance.  It was warm here, at the window.

“You’ve woken, then.”

The voice startled him, not having heard the door open, but Sauron did not turn away from the window and the warm breeze and the sunlight as it washed across his unnaturally cold face.  “Did you believe I was going to perish, there on the floor at your feet?” he asked coolly.  “I did not travel all that way only to die.  My lord.”

He felt the madness, lurking like some waspish creature festering and ever searching, enter the room before he felt Melkor’s natural, comfortable presence underneath, and he pressed his lips into a thin, angry line.  But then it eased, the unfamiliar giving way to everything Sauron recognized, and Melkor joined him at the window.  Their shoulders brushed only slightly.

“You lost me a Silmaril,” Melkor said, and Sauron did look at him then, searching silently through the clutter of a once-clear mind for the connection they shared that was sheared so fiercely from tenderness to...this.  “She took it from me, and you allowed her get to me.”

“Perhaps, then, I should have died for this grievous sin?  Would that solve your problems, do you think?” Sauron snapped irritably, unable to restrain himself.  

A surge of grief reached him and he was unsure if it was for his words or for the loss of that damnable stone.  The emotion disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced instead with an easy grumpiness Sauron was quite used to from him.  He looked away out the window again, feeling suddenly more grounded.  He had nothing else to say.

“Thankless, you are,” Melkor grumbled behind him, and Sauron scoffed, pondering briefly the likelihood of surviving a fall if he just up and jumped from the window of his tower.  Did he care if he lived further in this body?  Maybe his soul would flee, end up somewhere better.  

“If you had not left me - ”

“ _That_ ,” Sauron said, interrupting when he saw where this argument was going.  “That was your own idea, sending me away.”  There was a throbbing behind his eyes, a most unpleasant thing, and he rubbed the heels of his hands against his temples.  Did mortals have to deal with this?  Not being able to shed his skin and replace it was growing vexing.  “It was your idea,” he continued tiredly, “and do not attempt to make it out to be my own.  I was willing to go only because you asked it of me.  I was not here to fight beside you, or to protect you from - from the wiles of that woman, because you commanded me to leave your side.”

For the first time in those irksome minutes, Melkor did not have a retort.  Sauron glanced at him from his periphery and saw him only staring out the window, as well, his gaze fixed on some far-off object he could not discern.  A flutter against his mind in the silence startled him, but he opened to it without further question and a small wave of - not apology, not acknowledgement, not acceptance, but rather _recognition_ \- flooded through his limbs.

There was no better place for his soul, he knew, madness or no.

“The orcs, from when you returned.”  Melkor gave him a quick look before stepping away from the window, and Sauron’s irritation eased somewhat for the change of subject.  “I have not reprimanded them.  I assumed you would desire to do so yourself.”

Sauron nodded his thanks and Melkor left the room.  Warmth was still blowing through the window, grasping his attention without much effort, and he turned his face to it, lifting his eyes to the sun as it broke through the dark, ashy clouds surrounding their fortress.  He felt weak, tired, sore.  But he would survive.  Nothing, he felt, would kill him.  And as long as he survived, he would be here with the one he never wished to leave.  He had no choice, nor did he care to choose.  

The sun hit his face, thawing the aching chill from his body.  It was warm at the window, and he was happy.


End file.
